


Heredity

by elstaplador



Category: Le Comte de Monte-Cristo | Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 01:07:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elstaplador/pseuds/elstaplador
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three scenes in which is considered the knotty subject of heredity, as demonstrated in the Count's enemies and his enemies' children.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heredity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [earis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earis/gifts).



_I._

'Tell me, Baptistin, what think you to this heredity?'

'Heredity, monsieur le comte?'

The count manifested his impatience only with a flicker of his eyelids. 'Do you believe that parents who are bad can produce a child who is good?'

'It is impossible, sir,' Baptistin answered smartly, 'for even if the child was not born bad by nature, its parents would bring it up to do evil'

'Hm! But what if it were removed from its parents and raised in a virtuous family, to do good?'

'Then it would depend on the child, sir,' Baptistin said, in accents of sincerest doubt.

'Indeed! What would you say, then, if the father was the vilest rogue in all Christendom, while the mother was the purest angel?'

'That would never happen, sir, for what would an angel be doing with a rogue?'

The count's eyebrows rose, but he said, 'Indulge me in this whim, Baptistin, and tell me whether the child would be good or bad.'

'I suppose it would depend on whether he spent more time with the father or with the mother.'

'Or whether the mother was stronger-willed than the father? - but then,' the count added, almost to himself, 'I believe that this can hardly be the case.'

'It would be possible,' Baptistin admitted. 'Or -'

'Or?'

'I was going to say, if the child loved the mother better – which would be likely, if the father was so bad.'

'Hm! There's a thought.' The count sat musing for some minutes, during which time Baptistin knew better than to speak or to disturb him in any way. At last, the count said, 'Well! Let us imagine, then, that this child we are imagining grows up, and marries the daughter of a bad man and an indifferent woman. What would you give for the chances of any child of such a union?'

Baptistin said, 'Very little, sir.'

'Indeed! And yet thousands of such matches are made every day across all of Europe.'

'This is true, sir.'

'Small wonder man is so vile!' the count exclaimed. 'And is it, then, my duty to halt any such match, where that might be within my power? No! I deal in justice, not prevention! You may leave me, Baptistin.'

Baptistin turned and walked, silent as a stalking cat, out of the room.

  
_II._

The tragedy of Eugénie Danglars was that she was a person of greater integrity of either than her parents, but that marrying Albert de Morcerf (or, indeed, anyone) would have broken that integrity: so that the count's ingengious idea of bettering the world by ensuring that only the virtuous should marry was doomed, in this case, to failure. So much granted, let us also grant that arranging his enemies' affairs (or, at least, those of his enemies' offspring) for the greater good of society in its most general sense, came a poor second to taking revenge on those enemies. As a consequence, he left the machinations between the houses of Danglars and Morcerf to continue unchecked, until such time as he deemed it politic to turn his attention to them; which was not very satisfying for Eugénie Danglars.

Eugénie knew from an early age that she had been called to Art as some are called to the religious life, with as little regard for the company of the opposite sex. She was, perhaps, fortunate in being an only child, for the Baron indulged her in the provision of tutors, books, and materials in a way that he might not have countenanced had she had a brother. Even so, it was all too evident to Eugénie's eyes that her ever-increasing string of accomplishments held little intrinsic value in her parents' eyes; the elder Danglars had no regard for the glories of art or the honours of learning, seeing each completed painting, each tidbit of knowledge, each mastered aria, as merely another counter in that diverting game called Matrimony, in which Eugénie knew herself to be but a pawn.

When she was thirteen she overheard her father talking to Mlle Belrose, the pianoforte teacher, and shuddered. 'You must understand,' the Baron said, 'that there is no question of -' he lowered his voice '- _performance_. My daughter must be like a flower in a hothouse, keeping her beauties and talents only for those within her own hallowed circle – and, of course, her husband. And you will understand, my dear mademoiselle, that she must only learn the most _respectable_ pieces.'

This from a man who could not distinguish _La Marseillaise_ from _Auprès de ma blonde_! And worse, Mlle Belrose was agreeing with him; but then Mlle Belrose would agree with anyone who paid her. 'But of course, monsieur le Baron; you may rest assured that I teach only the most suitable music, nothing that might _sully_ a young mind.'

'Not so young,' the Baron said. 'A girl is never so young that her parents need not be thinking of her future.'

Indeed, the most infuriating thing about Eugénie's army of tutors and governesses was that, to a man (or woman), they shared her parents' preoccupation. Mlle Belrose cared not that she played well, but that she played prettily; M. Leclerc was more concerned that her subject was respectable than that her painting was good; Dr Thibaut would have confined her to the 'suitable' portions of classical and European history, but for her strong-willed determination to excel in all fields. But for Louise d'Armilly, she would almost have given up hope.

The Baroness engaged Mlle d'Armilly as a teacher of singing when Eugénie was fourteen, following a prolonged campaign to oust Mme Bernard. ('Her technique is atrocious! how do you ever expect me to learn from her?') Mindful of the misfortune that had but recently befallen Amandine, the youngest Beaulieu girl, the Baroness insisted that, if Mme Bertrand was to be replaced, it would be by another woman.

And so Louise came. She was barely eighteen, blonde and fragile-looking, possessed of a strong, pure voice that belied her appearance, but which was marred occasionally by a delicate cough.

'She will never manage Eugénie,' the Baron said.

'What of that?' The Baroness shrugged her shoulders. 'Nobody we have ever engaged has been able to manage Eugénie.'

As a matter of fact, Louise found Eugénie reasonably easy to manage, for she chided only to improve technique, and she was as interested as her pupil in searching out new music and new composers, and mastering their works. Eugénie, appreciating her new-found kindred spirit, was far more pliable than Mlle Belrose, M. Leclerc, or Dr Thibaut ever found her.

For Louise was different. She was young, young enough to have retained her idealism, to be devoted heart and soul to Music, though rendered cynical enough by repeated knocks to be able to earn her living in that same Music. (One must be very rich indeed to be able to devote one's life to Art without compromise.) But Louise was at once cynical enough to realise that she would be more successful if she were to indulge Eugénie rather than Eugénie's parents, and idealistic enough to truly appreciate her charge's single-minded devotion to the muse.

It was difficult to say when Louise had ceased to be known as Eugénie's teacher and accepted, instead, as her friend. Eugénie insisted that there was no difference, that Louise had been her friend for as long as she had taught her, and that she continued to teach her now that she was officially counted as a friend.

It was some time before the elder Danglars ceased to pay her a salary, and merely provided her with sumptuous bed and board when she was at the house – which was often.

It was, however, some time after Eugénie had begun demanding kisses as a reward for perfect tuning, or for particularly well executed trills – and some time after Louise had given in to her demands.

For whatever Eugénie Danglars wanted (at least, short of a career on the operatic stage or in the concert hall), that would Eugénie Danglars find herself a way to get - and when it was so trivial a thing as a kiss from her music teacher, what was there to stop her? It was, after all, one of the few commodities that Louise had in copious supply.

'It's quite usual,' Eugénie reassured her. 'All my friends' teachers kiss them - at least, the women teachers do. Not the men; that wouldn't be proper.'

Poor Louise was obliged to bow to Eugénie's idea of what was proper; for, though the Danglars were merely _nouveau riche_ , they did at least move in circles far more exalted than any that Louise could dream of. And, after all, what was an innocent kiss to show her pupil she was pleased with her?

To do Eugénie justice, she had no impropriety in mind when she began this programme of soliciting caresses from Mlle d'Armilly. Her reasoning was ruthlessly simple: she wished to excel in music, and also to have Mlle d'Armilly kiss her. (Why? Why did any woman wish to be kissed? Eugénie was not one to dwell on why she wanted something, only on how to obtain it.) Meanwhile, Mlle d'Armilly wished her to improve, and here was an intriguing way of rewarding her for that improvement, and one that did not mean raiding her paltry salary to purchase sweetmeats. Poor Eugénie; there were few enough people who had kissed her in her short life!

  
And meanwhile her parents schemed, as good parents do, to make a good match for her, to find a man with a good name to wed her and bed her, whose glory would mingle with hers and who would burnish the ever-brightening star of the Danglars house until it shone in the highest ranks of the heavens.

Eugénie knew, and chose not to. It was a destiny as inevitable as that of Œdipus; knowing that there was no escaping it, and little hope of postponing it, she resolved to enjoy as best she could the time that remained to her, and so she made of her study, not an anchorhold, where she might find true vocation, but a sanctuary, where she might find peace for a little space.

She had her piano there, with its stool wide enough easily to accommodate two; shelves full of music, exquisitely bound; her paints and easel; her books ( _Œdipus_ among them, with the rest of the works of Sophocles, Homer, Sappho and the other great Greek writers) – and Louise. For of course Mlle d'Armilly, who might be seen one day on the stage, could hardly be presented in the baroness' boudoir, or seen with Mlle Danglars in society – and, if truth were known, Eugénie preferred to believe that her tutor remained in the study, a votaress to her art, who never left the temple, as she would have wished to be herself. Eugénie preferred her Louise unsullied by the sordid world outside.

And it was to her piano, her music, her paints, and her books, that she fled (no - retreated! for Eugénie was not one to do anything so undignified as to flee) each day when she had been bored to stupefaction by her mother's admonitions, or her father's account of his prowess at the Exchange; but as the months went on, it was as much to Louise that she escaped as it was to her artistic and intellectual pursuits. For when she was with Louise there was no world outside, there was simply the two of them – and the music.

'I wish I could marry _you_ ,' Eugénie said, one evening, as they sat side by side at the piano.

Louise laughed. 'It wouldn't work, darling; I have no money.'

'I wish,' Eugénie said, 'that it didn't depend on money. It's so sordid. Why does everyone behave as if it's so important?' Her left hand found Louise's right, and she fancied that her erstwhile tutor blushed a little, though it was difficult to tell in the candlelight. 'That movement was perfect,' she continued, 'and you know it. Don't you owe me a kiss for that?'

'You only get kisses for singing,' Louise protested feebly, 'because I'm paid to teach you singing. I don't care how good your piano is.'

Eugénie's heart was beating fast, overtaking the metronome. 'You don't get paid any more. Come, Louise – if you knew how I longed to stay here forever, with you, and...'

'What?'

Eugénie took her right hand from the keyboard, and drew Louise's face towards her own. 'Kiss you as if you had never been my teacher.'

And after all, Louise was not her teacher now, and the door was locked, and it was a while until dinner, and one must snatch at little scraps of happiness as they flutter by.

An observer might comment that Eugénie had inherited from both her parents a certain ruthlessness in finding and taking what she wanted, but that she showed infinitely better taste than either of them.

  
_III._

Two years later, Albert de Morcerf, as elegant a dandy and as gallant a gentleman as an eligible young lady might hope to meet, returned from his travels in Italy to reacquaint himself with his prospective bride. He was sanguine enough at the idea; much as he was enjoying his bachelor days, he considered matrimony the next big adventure, and, in any case, foresaw it proving no great obstacle to his carrying on with the latter part of his adulthood in much the same manner as he had passed the first. He knew Mlle Danglars by sight (and that sight pleased him greatly); he observed to himself that, fruitless as his endeavours in the Eternal City had proved, he was now guaranteed satisfaction in one bed at least, and that he was by no means obliged to depart the courts of Venus. Indeed, hardly anybody did. Our Paris, far from regarding marriage as an exclusive contract, has taken the instruction to 'be fruitful and multiply' as pertaining to liaisons rather than children, and a fashionable husband today will have as many concubines as Solomon.

Some few months behind the Vicomte de Morcerf came his new friend, the Count of Monte Cristo, whose meditations on the outcome of such a match we have already heard. It would hardly be unfair to suggest that Albert was more excited by the prospect of introducing the Count to Parisian society than he was by his forthcoming marriage. Beautiful girls are found in every rich family (the richer the family, the more beautiful the daughters) but a reputed vampiric millionaire is worth showing off.

And indeed, there was something about the Count that excited Albert far more than the cold beauty of Eugénie. Like a magnet, some men have a quality that, while it repels some violently (as Franz d'Epinay), it attracts others with an equal compulsion – and Albert was one such. As a quarter of a century ago the mother had loved the sailor, so now the son was fascinated by the mysterious nobleman. More than once since his adventures in Rome had Albert dreamt that he, not Franz, visited the enchanted caves of Monte Cristo, and, drowsy with hashish, saw as his eyes closed that it was no voluptuous statue who bent to kiss his lips, but the Count himself. He woke from these dreams with a certain reluctance, and unaccountably short of breath.

But enough of this. My reader will know of the events that the Count of Monte Cristo set in motion, that stopped the marriage, that sent Eugénie Danglars to Belgium and thence to La Scala, her faithful Louise at her side, that banished Albert de Morcerf from France, and his mother to a convent. I do not propose to rehearse all this over again.

But I believe that you will care to know this: long afterwards, when he was no longer Vicomte de Morcerf, but plain Albert Herrera, having exchanged the shame of the trappings and title that had never been his, for his honest grandfather's name, when his face had tanned to a deep brown and his hands had grown calloused through hard work, when he had been promoted to the rank of captain through sheer skill and dedication, he thought still on the Count of Monte Cristo, and loved him still for the service he had rendered his family, for all that it had left his father dead and his reputation dust and ashes.

It is a strange thing, this heredity.


End file.
